Conversationalists
by Bellsie805
Summary: Conversations...mere instances of words strung together to fill voids of silence that people hate. Six pairings some uncommon, others all too prevalent and six conversations.
1. Musings on Silence & Lust in an Elevator

**Author's Note: **I'm doing something entirely different here. This will be a collection of drabbles/one-shots between six different couplings. Each vignette is inspired by a quote from a book, movie, or song. I doubt that there are any spoilers since this stuff is mostly so not in canon. Enjoy. P.S. I don't own _House_ or anything else.

"_He had a dream," I says, "and it shot him."_

"_Singular dream," he says._

_--Huck to the doctor in Mark Twain's "The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn"_

Conversations are nothing more than superfluous attempts to fill the supposedly terrible void called 'silence.' They are snippets of time marked by the speaking of words. These exchanges take place between two or more people who must verbalize feelings that were never meant to be spoken about in the first place. Conversations are brief moments in the day during which something or nothing at all _happens_. Humans are drawn to tragedies—to events that make life a little less boring. Conversations are a human's way to cope with the maddening, noiseless silence…silence that takes on many forms—the silence of love, death, or life.

This collection is, at its best, a gathering of conversations—some seemingly meaningless, some knowingly important. At its worst, this is a collection of aimless wanderings—some meant to enlighten others meant to be so drifting that not even the people involved know what they're doing.

This collection is a conversation.

3

The elevator 'dinged' brightly as it reached the top floor. The doors glided open with a jolt and Dr. Robert Chase entered the compartment.

"Good evening, Dr. Cuddy."

"Dr. Chase."

"You staying late?"

"Paperwork and the like. Yourself?"

"House."

The answer was enough for both of them. Cuddy leaned against the metal railing, watching the number of floors decrease as they descended downward. Chase stood next to her. If she moved her right hand any more than a few centimeters, it would be on top of his.

"What's House's problem this time?"

"Who knows? He threw a tantrum like a little baby and told me to get out. Typical House."

Chase snorted and Cuddy looked over at his profile. His blonde hair flopped gently in his eyes and every once and a while he would flick his head to keep the hair from obstructing his view. It was undeniably sexy.

"Yeah, that's House. He's worse than a three year-old."

"I've seen better behaved toddlers."

Chase looked at her and they both smiled resignedly. They dealt with a pain-in-the-ass colleague and ill patients all day—humor made the world go round.

There was silence in the elevator as it stopped suddenly. Cuddy almost lost her balance, but regained equilibrium quickly.

"What the hell?" Chase muttered.

The door didn't open. A red button blinked on. _Press only in emergencies_.

"Oh, terrific," Cuddy went up to the red button and was about to press it when Chase grabbed her hand.

"It's probably just a minor malfunction. That button probably makes this box spiral out of control."

Cuddy looked at him. His hand stifled hers.

"You're claustrophobic," she whispered.

"No. I don't like stopped elevators," he replied.

"Let go of my hand," she commanded in a small voice.

He dropped her hand gently and she picked up the conversation from where they had stopped before his hand had touched hers.

"Let me at least call the fire department," she gestured towards the outline of a box on the metal.

"Alright."

She went up to it and opened the box. She dialed 911 and told the dispatcher of their predicament.

"They said they'd be here in five minutes," she told him.

"Good."

"Well…"

The word hung in the air. It floated through the space between them gently, weaving its way to Chase. It didn't make either one of them feel any better; it simply helped to fill the void that was left by the absence of words.

"Where'd you grow up, Dr. Cuddy?" Chase asked.

"Small talk?"

"I hate silence."  
"Even comfortable ones?"  
"Yes."

"Would you take House's comments over silence then?"

"Probably. You?"  
"I find the need for human interaction an enjoyable one, but sometimes you just gotta shut off the static and jumbled voices and let your mind rest."

They looked at one another. Lust was evident in both sets of eyes.

"Chase…"

He took a step toward her. She instinctively backed up against the doors. She grasped his shoulders when he got close enough and then pressed her lips to his.

"We…" Cuddy's word.

"…shouldn't…" Chase's contraction ricocheted back to Cuddy insinuating the need for her to add the next word.

"…really…"

"…shouldn't…"

"…be doing this."

"It's so much fun, though," Cuddy managed to gasp out between kisses.

"You're a beautiful woman."

"And you're very handsome."

"House would love to see this."

"Of course he would. It'd be the only action he sees other than porn for the year," Chase snorted derisively again and kept ravishing Cuddy's mouth.

"Where were you headed?" She inquired as he planted a kiss on her collarbone.

"Pharmacy. House wanted me to sneak in to get some more Vicodin."

Cuddy shook her head and gasped when Chase pushes down the sleeve of her blouse to kiss her shoulder.

"Do you like broken elevators now?" She asked.

"Mm-hmm."

She stopped talking as he kissed his way around her face, mouth, and into her hair. She made trails down his back with her long, polished nails. She clutched at him and clawed at him, but with the tenderest emotions in mind.

Without warning, the elevator started to move again. Chase broke away from Cuddy and she stood helpless against the doors for a moment, before regaining her composure and fixing her shirt.

The doors slid open not ten seconds after they had broken apart. A very angry looking Cuddy walked off the elevator, past a stunned Dr. House, fire department, and various interns. Chase followed slowly behind her. House limped as fast as he could to catch up with Cuddy.

"What?" She whirled around on him, almost making him lose his balance. She saw Chase take a left turn to go to get on the stairs to go down to the pharmacy. She quickly turned her attention back to House.

"You and Chase on an elevator. Do you know how much I could get for a video of that?"

"_Shut up_!" She admonished and stalked off without waiting for House's snide remark.

"How cute," he murmured and hobbled back to his office.


	2. Take Two & Pray for the Worst

**Author's Note: **I'm on a roll with this killing House thing.

_Carrie's down in her basement all toe shoes and twinned _

_With the girl in the mirror who spins when she spins _

_From where you think you'll end up to the state that you're in _

_Your reflection approaches and then recedes again_

_--The Counting Crow's "St. Robinson and His Cadillac Dream"_

Conversations are sometimes filled with silence. Silence—the one thing people try to avoid with conversations (irony). Some people, though, find silence an amusing conversation within itself. So many intricacies fill the quiet—only the truly learned can every decipher them. Words have the power to destroy people, to conquer nations, and to capture the imagination, but sometimes the loudest conversation of all is the one spoken without words.

2

It had been a year and the day calendar in her room still read "Tuesday, June 8, 2004" on it. It was _his_ Bush-isms calendar that he had brought over one day and never picked up again. She changed the days faithfully—with each rip of the paper she was reminded of the enticement of the coming night.

She had stopped ripping on the eighth, though, when Wilson called her from the hospital. His voice had been drawn, terse, and full of unshed tears.

_Get down here quick, Allison_. _It's almost over_.

She arrived as fast as she could and when she saw Wilson's face she knew it was over. She had collapsed in his arms, crying piteously over a man with whom she had just made love with for the first time. It was a butchered cliché she knew, but her heart broke into too many pieces.

A year had passed. She quit working as a doctor—too many dying people for her to stomach. She became a recluse. Her hobbies included watching the bills stack up, dodging tax collectors, and ignoring weekly knocks by Wilson on her door. Foreman, Chase, and Cuddy had given up after she hadn't returned their phone calls, but Wilson was steadfast in his determination to get her to open up the door.

She did go out. One needed food and other necessities. She did have a job—minimum wage at a CVS far enough out of town, so people she knew wouldn't see her. It paid the bills and kept her fed with a salad every night.

She barely troubled herself to shower anymore. Grief, she noted, took away the luxury of caring about oneself. She had experienced it before—with her husband—but this, _this_ was something different. The build-up of scum, grease, and dirt on her body were the only things that propelled her to shower.

And now, it was Wednesday, June 8 (a year) and she was listening to Wilson knock on the door. She squeezed her eyes shut and looked at the pill bottle in her hand. She had found an old supply of his Vicodin while she had been cleaning yesterday. They were a good year and a half old—their job as a painkiller was diminished, but they most certainly could function as another killer.

She unscrewed the cap—damn Wilson and his pounding! She dropped several of the pills on the ground as her hand shook. The incessant knocking was too unnerving. He knew how to get to her—he knew today was going to be terrible.

"Go away!" She screamed with a ferocity that scared even her.

The knocking continued. She frantically emptied the bottle onto her hand. Sweat marred her normally pretty face. Her hair was pasted to her skin and the black sweater she wore was not conducive to keeping her cool in the June heat.

She wondered if this was how House felt when he stared at the pills. Confusion ran rampant through her brain as the booming bursts of noise coming from the knocks made her want to strangle Wilson. How hard could it be? She needed to take as many as she possibly could—end this strange, miserable life.

She contemplated Wilson as her hand moved closer to her mouth. She had not seen the man in a year. He had hugged her gently in the hospital (he was an excellent doctor—bedside manner one of the best in the business), and he offered her as much support as she needed. She hated herself because she didn't need to sap another man's strength—she didn't need to lose another man. The answer to all his offers were no.

She cried and berated herself (the hand moved closer). She had no right to grieve for him for this long. But it was a compounded sadness, she rationalized—her grieving period for her late husband had been short—two weeks. This was owed time.

The hand touched her lips. The pounding stopped and she instinctively dropped her hand. The tensing in her shoulders had stopped and her hand muscles had fallen limp. The rest of the pills scattered on the floor as she looked blankly after them. She stood up and was about to bend down to pick them up, take them, and end the deed, when she noticed a small breeze playing with her greasy hair. She swiveled around to find Wilson standing there. He had a beige windbreaker on, his hair was mussed, and he had a worried look on his face. She moved backwards like a trapped cat.

He didn't say anything, just moved to the floor where she had dropped all the Vicodin. He dropped to his knees and started by righting the bottle. He dropped each pill in one at a time. She bit her thumbnail and kept her arms snug around her body—defensive stance number one.

But she noticed something as she watched Wilson painstakingly pick up each painkiller. His agile hands dropped one in after another, but she couldn't help but notice the single drop of water that dropped from his eye after he finished picking them all up off the floor. He squatted and wiped gently at his eyes before turning to face her once again.

Words were simply superfluous—the look he gave her was so heartbreaking that defensive stance number one turned into God-I'm-so-sorry pose number three. His eyes said the words that he would never be able to say: _they took my best friend away from me…please, don't let them take you_, _too._

He turned his head back to the floor and stood up slowly. He pocketed the bottle (for his own use?) and started to head for the door. She couldn't speak—her larynx refused.

She ran up to him and tapped him on the back. He turned around to look at her. She thrust her arms around his torso, buried her head into his nylon windbreaker, and started to cry. He breathed in the oils of her hair and let himself give into the pressures that had been boiling inside of him all day. He cried.

As she cried, she knew with a certain sense of finality the first thing she would do when she left the embrace with Wilson—

A calendar needed to be changed.


	3. This Ping Pong Feeling Break Up

**Author's Note: **I'm surprised there's not more of the House/Stacy pairing out there. People must really hate her. Short, little drabble-y chapter. "If you're a bird…" line borrowed from _The Notebook_ and _Postcards _is Margaret Atwood's.

_Outside the window_

_they're building the damn hotel,_

_nail by nail, someone's_

_crumbling dream. A universe that includes you_

_can't be all bad, but_

_does it?_

_Margaret Atwood, "Postcards"_

With the advent of the telephone, there came the discovery of conversation without faces. People thousands of miles apart could talk to one another and never have to see each other's faces. With the start of the Internet, faceless faded into nameless and a loss of humanity, some might say, began.

So, here's another conversation filled by the overlying fact that the speakers cannot see one another's faces. Thoughts and feelings are expressed through words, but in this instance, a seemingly integral part of the process is missing—

The ability to read the unspoken feelings, the gestures of human nature.

The phone rang and through the dark House was able to grope for it and answer.

"Hello?"

"I can't do this anymore."

"Stacy?"

"I can't."

"Where the hell are you?" He knew this had been coming. He saw it her face this morning when she had left, but he hadn't actually thought she would do it.

"Greg, I've…it's too much. I have a job and you're just too taxing. I love you. I do…"

"Then, come home?"

"It's not that simple."

"Yes, it is that simple. Just get that cute little ass of yours home."

"I'm not coming home."

"Who's there with you?"

"No one."

"Where in God's name are you calling from?"

"The office."

"Liar."

"Everyone lies."

"Damnit, Stacy! You can't do this to me!" There was righteous indignation in his voice—the leg and Stacy would be all too much to handle.

"Yes, yes I can. You've done it to me. There isn't room for me."

"Room for you? I've given you everything I've possibly could. I can't walk…Jesus Christ, you would think that would be enough for you?"

"No, there you go again! It's all about that damn leg. Hell, Greg, you weren't easy before the leg, but it worked because _I'm _not easy. But now—you're insufferable."

"You've always been a bitch."

"And you a bastard."

"No, you're not only a bitch, but you're a coward. I like how you break-up with me on the phone. That's an especially nice touch, don't you think?"

He heard her cover the mouthpiece of the phone and tell someone in the room with her that she'd be a few more minutes, that he was a bastard, and that this was a ridiculous exercise in stupidity.

"Someone else is in that room, Stacy. What man? Who'd you cheat on with this time, coward?" Jealously ran rampant through his mind.

"I never cheated on you. And if I'm a coward you're a coward."

_If you're a bird, I'm a bird._

"I'm not the one who can't face me."

"I can face you, but I'm at the _office_! Hell, Greg, I'm still working here. I'm not the one who hasn't worked in nine months!"

"_Coward_." The word slipped out of his mouth. He wanted to see her face. He wanted to see the word affect her. He wanted to see her eyes flicker and her mouth tug downwards minutely.

She laughed. It was a rousing, bitter laugh and had she been in the same room, he knew he would have walked out of it.

"We're _both_ cowards if you haven't noticed my darling—" he noticed how sharp and terse the word darling had escaped from her lips…darling used as a derogative term of endearment.

"Both of us? Really?" He could do sarcasm just as well as her.

"We're both cowards. The whole world is made up of a bunch of cowards. You and I—we can't face anything. You're right—I'm a coward for not being able to face you. If I faced you I wouldn't be able to go through with this whole thing. But you're a coward, too, for not being able to face your leg. We're cowards—we're all cowards, Greg! Humans are born cowardly. It's the genetic mutation in some people that makes them brave. Greg, you're a doctor, you should understand. We're all cowards. All of us. Me and you and James and Lisa…I don't know, I don't know. But I _know_ in spite of all my cowardliness, I know one thing. I can't do this with you anymore," House could hear the tears in her voice and knew how hard it was for her, but he couldn't see her face and his sympathy was none.

"If you're aiming to get off the hook easy, you'd have a better chance if you actually showed up. Crying women make me all warm and fuzzy inside."

"Greg—"

"This is funny. You taping this to sell to somebody?"

"It's all a joke to you isn't it?"

"You betcha."

"That's the sad part, then, Greg, that you think this is funny. It's over. Somebody will be over to get my stuff. I just can't do this stupid twisted tango with you anymore. Somebody wants to use the phone. I've gotta go. Goodbye."

The line died. His face contorted and a crashing sadness suffocated him in the darkness.

"Stacy, please don't hang up. You know that in my mind we're perfect for each other because we're alike. We couldn't get along with anyone else because we'd kill them. But with us…_it works_. Don't you see? _It works_. I forgave you for the proxy decision. I forgave you. I forgave you. _It works_, don't you understand? _It works_!"

"Error number 234: user is not available. Please try again later."

He thought about pleading with the robot on the phone, but he couldn't do it. He pleaded to no one—an empty telephone line, perhaps, but not to a person. There was nobody on that line—no one to listen to how damaged he was.

"Goodbye, Stacy."


	4. A Princess in the Penthouse

**Author's Note: **Let me explain the next pairing, real quick. It isn't House/Cameron; it's Cameron seeing House as her means of escape, the only one to stand up to her husband. Enjoy it.

_Hush my darling don't fear my darling_

_The lion sleeps tonight_

_--"The Lion Sleeps Tonight" by the Tokens_

Conversations can be great mysteries at times. A third party pops in on two people engrossed in one another's words and that third party views the conversation in a confused mindset. But conversations can also be great secret-tellers at times. Maybe it's an unintended dropping of a name or maybe it's the mere mention of a place at a certain time that can make the conversation turn to a discovery—a secret revealed by the lure of a conversation.

""""""

She starts the conversation with the window that sounds like the ones she has had

with it 451 times before.

"So, how are you today, Allison?"

"Fine, Dr. Cameron, thank you for asking."

"How much do you miss him today?"

"Same as yesterday, you?"

"Yeah, same here."

"It's been seven years."

"And I still have his picture."

"Which one did you end up picking from Wilson's stash again?"

"The one of House in front of his motorcycle, wind flying through his hair—"

"Allie!"

The word flies through the air and Allison stops talking to her reflection in the window. He keeps her in this room in this penthouse overlooking Central Park. It _is_ beautiful, but it _is_ boring. She's the princess in the high tower, but she knows her prince is never coming.

"Allie? Are you in there?"

She does not want to respond, but must. It's one of the requirements in the contract. _To honor and obey_.

"Yeah, I am."

Edward ambles into the room where she is sitting. He is holding the business section of the _Wall Street Journal _up and is frowning. He frowns a lot, she notes. He smiles only for the public and occasionally when they are making love.

"Did you see these latest reports on our ADHD drug? You worked in the medical field long enough. How much would these guys need to say this thing worked?"

She hates making love to him—it's more like making hate. She imagines his body as someone else's (House) and it helps her make it through the terrible moments when she fakes the orgasm (she remembers that scene from some movie—_When Harry Met Sally_?) to satisfy his egotistical needs. He wants children very badly and he expects her to give them to him. They have three more years of this dance together and he wants something he can hold over her head at the divorce hearing. _You'd be a terrible mother. All you do all day long is gaze out that damned window at some fixed point in space. I get the kids_.

"Allison?"

He says she's lost her mind. He tells her that she's lost every ounce of sanity that she once possessed. He tells her that Greg House died two years ago and that she can't love ghosts.

"I don't know, Ed, I was just a lowly immunologist," she murmured.

And the answer is true. He makes her give answers that she doesn't want to give. He makes her do things against her will—_quit your job, live in New York, give me children_.

He simmers with the knowledge that he is dealing with a possibly infirm woman. He explodes with the fact that he is trying to hold up his end of the contract. Both of them silently wonder if they can reason with an insane person.

"Damn it, Allie! I get you everything you want, why can't you cooperate with me? Marriages are a two way street—you give, I give. I don't give all the time!" Edward Vogler shouts.

She wants to chide him, _temper, temper_, but she knows he can kill a person and he wouldn't be afraid to break her neck.

"I—"  
The funny part is that she doesn't want to defend herself to him. She feels no need to. She wishes that this sad story would end. She sacrifices herself repeatedly for people who never say thank-you. She receives no letters, emails, or phone calls. She thinks of how she agreed to marry Vogler, be his trophy-wife, if he would stop his rampage and leave House to practice medicine. Ten years, read the contract, ten years before divorce is an option. _Ten years_. The unbearable silence makes her contemplate jumping from the window.

"You what?"

The best part about Edward Vogler is that he is infuriating not because of his sometimes angry shouts, but because he hisses and fakes calm, which he knows will aggravate her more than anything else will.

She stands up from her position in front of the window that overlooks Central Park. She stretches her limbs and walks over to where her husband stands. They fight all the time—nasty battles full of hate. The only reason their 7-year marriage has not yet deteriorated is because of the simple fact that she has signed a contract and that binds her to him for ten years. It is like when she played tennis when she was younger—ten times hitting ten balls to one side of the court. She remembers counting down the number of balls she had hit and when she got to seven she could see the end in sight. Years, though, are different from merely smacking a tennis ball.

"I'll be back in an hour."

"Don't you dare leave!" He grabs her wrist.

She whirls around, wrangling her bracelet-laden wrist out of his hands.

"I'll leave anyone I want."

It's a flash of her previous spirit, which she thinks she will never see again. She dashes out of the room and down the stairs from the penthouse apartment. With each step, she hears the echoes from steps higher—_Allison! Allie!—_but she isn't going back up those stairs into that room.

She sprints down the stairs. Careless footsteps on uncaring wood. She knows she is faster than Edward is, even if she rarely uses her legs. She pushes open the ornate door and runs through the lobby. The concierge and doormen look at her with questioning eyes. She knows their thoughts by their glances to one another:_ the princess emerges_.

Allison scurries down the sidewalk hoping to lose herself in the crowd. She pulls her beige cashmere cardigan closer to her. It covers a white tank top and it's barely forty-five degrees in the New York autumn. Her jeans are couture, but that's what she gets for marrying a rich man. Her beat-up suede ballet flats are comforting on the New York street.

"Taxi!"

The word leaves her lips in a vibrant cacophony of meanings. The word holds her dreams, needs, and fears. The cab pulls up as she watches her husband watch her get in the cab.

"Where to?"

"Just start driving, please," she murmurs.

"I need a destination, ma'am."

"Tiffany's on 5th Avenue."

It's the first place that escapes her mouth. She knows it will do until she collects her thoughts. She slips her hand into her jean pocket. She removes it and finds she only has $45.

"Wait," she tells the cabbie.

"Lady, look, I have a job to do here—"

"I'm running away from him," she points at the man standing a block away.

"Look—"

"I don't know what to do," she starts to sob.

"Do you have any relatives?"

"No."

"Friends?"

"I don't know. I used to…I used to have friends, when I worked at the hospital…" she trails off into the oblivion of the back of a taxi cab.

"What hospital?"

She watches his eyes look at her as they stop at a red light. She shifts her eyes back down to her clasped hands.

"Princeton-Plainsboro."

The cabbie snaps his fingers and hits the accelerator.

"You know, I just took a two guys to a hospital conference. They were talking about Princeton-Plainsboro. The one guy had the name of a grill. Damnit, what's the name? The lean, mean—"

"Foreman!" She shouts with excitement.

"Bingo!"

She remembers what it is like to happen upon the right diagnosis.

"Can you take me where you took him?"

"Sure."

The cabbie smiles and drives her through the city. They arrive at their destination in record time and Allison smiles when she read the words on the banner outside the building: "Who's Who in American Medicine Annual Conference."

"It's going to be $35.25, but I really hate to charge you…"

"No, here, take the $45. Please, you made my life."

He tips his hat.

"Serendipity, ma'am."

She tilts her head and gives him a grin as she slams the door. The cab pulls away and she turns to face the building.

She takes a deep breath and slips into the lobby. People are milling about, and she hopes to see Foreman. She looks around and sees a black man and a blonde-haired man laughing, about to catch an elevator.

"Foreman! Chase!"

Her voice is loud, clear and she starts walking towards them in case they do not stop talking. She watches their heads turn and sees Chase's mouth drop first in recognition of the voice. He rushes up to her and grabs her arm, looking at her face. Allison knows they probably will not recognize her, since she has dyed her hair blond (another condition of the contract) and her face is much worn for a woman who sits in front of a window all day.

"Cameron?"

"No…"

"But, your voice?"

Chase always looks adorable when he is confused, she thinks.

"It is _me_, but it's Allison Vogler now. Remember?"

She knows he remembers. He is the reason she _is_ a Vogler. His insecurity is at fault.

"We remember," Foreman says quietly from behind Chase.

"Does _he_?" She questions quietly. She wants to know that he's not dead.

Chase lets go of her arms and turns to face Foreman. They exchange knowing looks. Allison feels her heart skip more than one beat. She hopes it skips them all.

"He's…sick," Chase tells her.

She yearns to collapse, and Foreman sees this. They may have had their disputes in the past, but the boys were worried about their former colleague.

"Cameron? You alright?"

"Edward told me he was dead."

Chase laughs.

"He's not, but he's not doing so well. Wilson is supervising his treatments for prostate cancer. If you want, he's— "

"You guys never called, wrote, emailed…"

"You saved our asses, what were we supposed to do?" Foreman asks her.

"Are you okay, though, Cameron? You just—"

"Cameron doesn't exist anymore," she murmurs, eyes to the floor.

"God, what has that bastard done to you?" Chase murmurs.

"Said bastard is here to pick up his wife."

Vogler looms in front of them like a wall. Allison cowers and Chase lets Foreman take her by the shoulder and place her behind them.

"There's only one bastard either of us tolerates on a daily basis and that's House. She doesn't want to be with you right now," Foreman informs him.

"So, you both stayed with Dr. House then? Dr. Chase you had so much promise, too. And Dr. Foreman! Tsk, I must say I'm under-impressed by you two."

Allison hopes this is all a dream and that when she wakes up she will be back in her office at Princeton-Plainsboro. She cannot believe that he would follow her here. She knows that he probably jumped in a taxi and followed her here.

"Riddle me this, Vogler. When a woman runs away from you, what do you think that means?"

It's the familiar thumping of the cane that makes her pick her head up from Foreman's shoulder. House stands in front of Chase, Foreman, and she and he is looking at the large man in front of him. She notices how fragile he looks now, his hair coming out in spurts and his face hollow from more than age.

"Oh, that's right. You're too stupid to answer. Lemme know when you come up with something."

House turns around and looks pointedly at her.

"What are you three doing? Move."

House pushes through them, dragging his hand gently over her should as he does. Foreman and Chase follow dutifully, tugging Allison behind them.

"I'll have your medical license revoked for this!" Vogler screams as House recedes into the elevator followed by Allison, Chase, and Foreman.

"Like you revoked hers? Don't think so, big boy."

"Allie, come back, _now_. Please, baby?"

She looks up and her finger wants to move to the "hold door open" button. He _is_ good to her she concedes.

"Cameron, hand off the button."

But she loves him more.

"Goodbye, Edward."

The door closes.

"Allie?"

House's voice, still cynical and sarcastic, slices through the air.

"Dr. Allison Cameron Vogler. Nice to meet you, too."

Her hand is out and she waits for a shake that never came seven years earlier. He clasps her hand.

"Drop the Vogler. We're even on saving each other's asses, by the way."

"Allison Cameron," her tongue forms the words. She doesn't hear House's last comment.

She's free.


	5. Blood Soaked Apologies

**Author's Note: **I started out with six, but I must make it five. There's no way I'm gonna get a sixth chappie, since I'm headed for vaca and I really have another idea up my sleeves (this was originally the last one, so it doesn't matter.) Consider the fourth chappie two-in-one, since it was a lot to write (I had to do Cameron/Vogler…'nuff said.)

"_We communicate in apologies."_

_--Adam Sandler to Paz Vega in Spanglish_

Sometimes conversations keep us sane. Even if it is a one-sided, _I-need-this_ type they keep us sane. Interaction with another human being is integral to life. Without it, people become lonesome and the world seems a little darker. And, most importantly, conversations let us say we're sorry.

""""""

Through his lips slip another _I'm sorry. _Through hers there is silence. He pats back her hair gently and wishes that life would be fair. He knows that life is not fair and he wishes he could curse God, but like the Sister said, one can't be angry at something they think doesn't exist.

"You'll wake up," he whispers into her ear, "tomorrow I'll take you to dinner and we'll really have a date."

He whispers sweet nothings into her ear when she's dying, but he can't do it when she's alive. He's a terrible person.

Blood has seeped through her pink shirt and he curses and throws his cane to his side. People are gathering, staring and someone's shouting "Call 911!" He can hear the dialing of several cell phones and the frantic relaying of information to the dispatcher.

"Yes, right outside Princeton. Uh-huh, yes. Looks to be a female. I don't know, there's a lot of blood…"

He wants to scream. He wants to scream that he's "a doctor damn it! I'm supposed to save her life!"

_I'm Gregory House, and I cannot save her life._

She has (it's not had yet) a crush on him and he just couldn't bear to see her brilliance be diminished by the empty thoughts of love. He makes her work for he rewards, and work she does. But this isn't supposed to be a reward. She's not supposed to bleed to death in his arms.

"She's bleeding to death!" He snaps to the nearest person. They look at him oddly, and try to talk to him.

"But, sir—"

"Shut the hell up. Where are the EMTs?"

"On their way. You should—"

"We're both doctors. I know what I should do in this situation."

He knows what he _should_ do, but instead presses her to his chest. Maybe he can stop the bleeding this way. Can't she feel the apologies leaving his chest?

"I'm sorry. Cameron, come on, Allison. Come on! I'm sorry! I'm sorry! I do like you. I really do. Everyone does. Everyone lies, and I'm not exempt. God, Cameron…" his voice starts to crack.

There is a cacophony of sirens around him that is as silent to him as all the jabbering people who have pulled over to watch the grotesque scene are. He hates the human condition of being drawn to tragedies. Tragedies, gossip, and scandal make those whose lives are boring seem colorful—alive at another's dying expense.

He wants to scream for these people to stop staring. He pushes Cameron's long hair away from her bloodied face. He can almost see her smile. He is reminded of the song…_the screeching tires, the busting glass, the sound that I heard last…_

"Don't. Oh, God, I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."

More sorries that couldn't make anything better. It reminds him of the reason he never says the words in the first place. Humility is an excellent virtue, but it's for people like Wilson and Cuddy who need it. He does not.

Gregory House apologizing. He is surprised some Candid Camera group does not jump out from the bushes claiming they had "punk'd" him. He'd kill Chase and Foreman if that were the truth. But he knows it is not, for Cameron lies bleeding on the ground. He's a doctor; he can tell the difference between fake blood and real.

And this blood seeping out her is most definitely real.

It is his fault that Cameron lays on the ground bleeding. If he had hit the deer, they might be in the same situation, but they might not. If he hadn't swerved, if he hadn't taken her, if they left five minutes earlier…

"If," he whispers into her ear as he holds her bleeding body.

"Sir, we need you to release her, please. We're here to treat her," an EMT that reminds him of Chase informs him.

"No," he murmurs into her hair.

"Sir, please."

It is a command and House is not used to taking commands.

"I'm Dr. Gregory House, damn it!"

"Sir…"

The voice trails off as two EMTs pull him away from her body. The other Chase-clone EMT bends down to feel her pulse.

"Get two stretchers over here, stat!"

The EMTs leave him and get the stretchers. It is only then when it registers in his mind that there are two stretches being requested.

He listens to the EMTs' chatter, as he is strapped onto the stretcher.

"Male is bleeding profusely from several deep cuts. There may be some internal damage. Female is unconscious and appears to have several broken ribs. One large cut from her sternum to her abdomen."

"Where's all the blood from?"

"This guy right here. Some of the people on the scene say he's delirious. Loss of blood combined with the shock, probably."

Now, House really wants to shout that _they're _crazy and he's a "doctor, damn it!" But, he can't, because an oxygen mask is being slipped on his face. It's a shame Cuddy never thought of this method to make him shut up.

He wants to be by her, but he can see they are going to be transported in different ambulances. He reaches out his fingers towards her gurney, but he cannot reach. She's too far away, too far away, too damn far away…

And all fades to black.

""""""

Conversations—humans' desperate attempts at filling the not fillable void of static silence. Conversations are periods of time in which something or nothing occurs. They are all disconnected—dispersed throughout days and weeks. They can be important and they can be meaningless—but for a few minutes or seconds they take the pain of loneliness away.

This was a collection of conversations. They were not related, except for the recurring characters. Snippets of "what-ifs" and "could have beens" in different times and places—

Yes, like a conversation.


	6. Sinking

**Author's Note: **_House _isn't mine. So, I wrote this as a little one-shot and thought about the _Garden State _quote. And that's when I knew it belonged in this collection.

_Andrew Largeman: Hey Albert? Good luck exploring the infinite abyss._

_Albert: Thanks. Hey, you too._

_--Zach Braff to Denis O'Hare in "Garden State" _

Conversations involve two people—be they alive and dead, alive and alive, or both dead, there are typically two people (unless the person is a basket-case.) But these conversations between two people take many forms because of the relationships that can occur between humans. Be it a conversation that takes place between a father and son, lovers, mother and daughter, friends…all these conversations have different connotations and bring their own nuances to the table. And sometimes, conversations take different forms as relationships shift.

""""""

He sits on the dock. Princeton's a college town and every proud college town (especially an expensive Ivy League one) wastes a lot of money of a sport that's for rich kids like him—crew. He rowed. He row_ed_.

But now, what does he have? He owns a small apartment and the requisite knick-knacks and the like, but that's not what life should be filled with should it? He doesn't know anymore and the skipping of the rocks over water provides him little comfort. They get off so easy.

His father's dead and he's a sinking rock.

He comes here because there's peace, there's quiet, and there are rocks. It lets him take out his grief on inanimate objects that can't fend for themselves. He wasn't able to fend for himself. He had to fight and learn how to survive. He had to help her to survive. And the only meaningful thing he had ever needed to do—save his mother—was the one thing he wasn't able to accomplish.

He chucks a particularly large rock into the river, not to skip it, but to see it sink. Sinking things make him feel as if he has not sunk as far as he can. It's a slow journey to the bottom.

The rubber ended wood on weather-beaten planks sound. He knows it's House.

"What the hell do you want?"

"To make sure you don't kill yourself."

Chase laughs bitterly.

"Me? You're worried about me? I thought I was still on your shit list."

"I don't waste my time on shit lists."

"Oh, really?"

"Your dad was a good doctor. Hell, he was a great one."

Chase sneers, takes a handful of small rocks, and launches them vehemently into the water. House doesn't flinch because House doesn't ever flinch.

"You're a great doctor, but that doesn't mean you're going to win human being of the year."

Chase waits for the comment about being a bad son. He waits. House doesn't like to miss opportunities to ride him, so why wouldn't he waste this one?

But instead House moves to his side and slowly lowers himself to the dock's surface. His cane drops and he lets his butt rest on the wood with his legs sprawled in front of him. He manages to swing his good leg around and lets it dangle over the edge. He drops his cane and moves his other leg with his hands. It's a painful gesture of solidarity. Chase doesn't appreciate it, so he stands up and puts his hands in his pocket.

"I'm not getting up."

"Good."

"If you keep falling down long enough, you start to realize that it's not worth the energy to get back up," House waxes poetic and Chase shoves his hands deeper in his pockets.

"He's dead."

"A very true mantra."

There are a few people who feed the ducks stationed along the river's edge. One shades her eyes and watches the scene on the dock. Two men, one with is feet scraping the water and the other with his back turned. It could be anything from a lover's quarrel to a divided father and son. The person goes back to feeding the ducks. Somehow, the waterfowl are a lot less complicated than human actions.

"So, you're sulking because you didn't have enough time with your father."

Chase purses his lips and House takes his cane and swings it across the top of the water. The soft splashing of barely displaced water is the only conversation for several minutes.

"Why are you here? You're starting to sound like Cameron," Chase says, watching the rowers row back towards the end of the river.

"I've come to reclaim my job. I'm the bitter, sarcastic, jaded doctor. You're supposed to be the lovable Aussie. So, Foreman's filling-in for you, Camron's taken over for Foreman, and I'm playing Cameron. I'd rather like to reclaim my personality."

Chase is unimpressed and not amused.

"Go away."

"You don't get three wishes."

Chase whirls on him and points an accusing finger at House's back.

"And you don't get the right to infringe on my privacy."

"Infringe? What a big word for our darling little Aussie. Did your mother teach it to you? Or was it your father?"

Through gritted teeth—"Leave my mother out of this."

"But why?" It's House swishing cane and sarcastic utterance that makes Chase put his hands on the man's shoulders. He's not seeing Greg House as his superior—this superior is Rowan Chase.

"Push," Rowan hisses.

Chase removes his hands.

"That's too good for you."

"And you my boy are too good for this," House's hands, but Rowan's voice, sweep the landscape, encompassing begging ducks and weary rowers.

There is no response to that, so Chase assumes his old pose. The duck-feeder watches this silent saga and knows now that this pair must be father and son. Even if the crippled man looks nothing like the able-bodied one, their argument is a thousand years old. Well, every argument is a thousand years old, but this one has the distinct bitterness of a familial dispute.

"Virginia Woolf committed suicide by weighing her pockets down with rocks. You contemplating the same thing?" It's still House's voice but the argument playing in Chase's head is pure Rowan.

"That was always Mum's area of expertise."

"Your mother was a fine woman."

"You never loved her!"

House tilts his head in response and hears Chase kick at a warped plank.

"It's your decision," House offers.

Chase reaches his hand up to pull at his hair. To tug out tufts and make his heartthrob qualities disappear.

"No, it's not! You made me stay with her!" He shouts a little too loudly.

House turns his head around and looks at the distressed Chase.

"What are you talking about?"

"You know what I'm talking about!"

House realizes that something's wrong with Chase. He manages to stand up and get his cane in hand.

"For once, I have no idea what's going on."

"Bastard!"

Chase slaps House's face seeing only Rowan's.

_Jesus Christ_, the duck-feeder breathes when she sees the slap.

House's head swivels and his hand grips the cane. He takes the cane and nudges Chase's ankles—he won't hit him, but he this is a warning.

It's the cane, Chase figures later, that makes him realize this isn't his father.

"Dr. House I never meant to hit—"

"You might not have meant it now, but you have in the past. Don't do it again," House hobbles towards the land end of the dock.

"House!"

"I never had the opportunity to learn about my father either. At least you saw him before he died," House tells him before walking back to his parked car.

"House!"

"Don't chase after things because you're guilty!" He shouts back.

_Definitely not a father-son argument_, the woman decides as she lets some more breadcrumbs fall from her hand.

Chase sighs. No matter how many men remind him of his father and how many rocks remind him of himself there is nothing he can do.

Rowan Chase is dead and Robert Chase is waiting to reach the bottom.


End file.
